Starting Slow
by cheride
Summary: Martin Cody's in jail, and the guys are back from Las Vegas. What's for dinner?


_**Starting Slow**_- Cheride

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators._

_Rating: G

* * *

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**Author's Notes: **Almost a year ago now, when I wrote _Of Nightmares and Memories_, the judge arrived home from Las Vegas to find McCormick settling into the gatehouse, and invited the kid over for dinner when he was through. I have wondered a few times since then what that first meal alone looked like, and finally thought maybe I should find out.

As always, thanks to L.M. Lewis for beta-work; she is helpful _and_ speedy, what more could anyone ask for?

* * *

Milton Hardcastle stirred the simmering meat sauce, and wondered for about the tenth time if he should just go over and drag the young man to the house. Then, just as every time before, he thought maybe he should just go ahead and eat. The invitation to dinner had been instinctive, and was meant to be harmless, but—in retrospect—the judge was beginning to think maybe it had come out more commanding than he had intended.

But, there was no denying the fact that he expected his commands to be followed, even if he hadn't entirely intended to issue them, so why was he still waiting? It was that expectation that kept him coming back to the idea that maybe he should just go drag McCormick over here, whether the kid liked it or not.

_He hasn't done anything to deserve that,_ he argued with himself. _At least, not yet._

Hardcastle stepped over to the back door, hoping to see a lanky figure crossing the lawn, but there was nothing. He tried to determine what the real problem was here. He'd had ex-cons at the estate before, and most had been around long enough that he got comfortable seeing them at his dinner table. But none had been present their first night; maybe that's why he was so uptight about this evening's meal. Usually, Sarah fed his "projects" in the kitchen until everyone settled into some sort of familiarity. But when he and McCormick had taken off for Vegas yesterday, Sarah had decided to go north to visit her sister, so now it was just the two of them, and he'd been over there, seeing the kid getting settled into the gatehouse, and the invitation—or the _directive_, whichever it had been—had simply come out.

Maybe it had been his moment of relief at finding McCormick where he belonged. Letting the young man return alone from Nevada had not been without its risks, but—much like the dinner invitation—it had seemed the right thing to do.

Actually, it occurred to him now that he might feel better if he had been _more_ relieved at seeing McCormick's sports car sitting in the driveway, but the concern he had felt at leaving the ex-con to his own devices had been almost obligatory. He recognized now that he actually would've been surprised if the kid _hadn't_ been here.

He contemplated that for a moment, still staring out the window at a noticeably empty lawn. He had brought McCormick here with a different agenda than the others who'd come, but with the same expectations: it would take six months to earn his trust, and he wasn't looking for them to become buddies.

So why had he had those fleeting thoughts that there were layers to Mark McCormick he had never anticipated? And why had he found himself amused by the kid's quick lip, rather than simply annoyed? The guy was a convicted felon harboring a lot of resentment, not to mention that just two days ago, he'd been arrested again, a breath away from a long trip up the river. He wasn't really supposed to be _behaving_.

_But he did agree to help. And he was here waiting, right where he belonged._

Unsure what any of that really meant, Hardcastle pulled a hand across his face, crossed back to the stove, and turned the heat down one more notch.

**00000**

Mark McCormick folded the last tee shirt and closed the drawer. Then he pulled it open again, and rearranged the small stacks of clothing before pushing the drawer back in place. Then he stood for a few seconds before he found his hand reaching for the drawer again.

"Stop stalling," he scolded himself. "How many ways can you fold a dozen shirts?"

For about the tenth time, he wished he had brought along something more than just a few boxes of clothes. Not that he had all that much to bring, but it would've been easier to take his time placing his few personal belongings carefully around his new home than it was to drag out the process of putting away tee shirts and jeans.

With a sigh, he grabbed the empty box at his feet and carried it downstairs, tossing it with the few others standing in the corner. He supposed he could break them down; it would make them easier to get back to his apartment tomorrow. But there really was no need, and then he'd just have to reassemble them before he could finish packing.

He sighed again and looked around the living area, wondering if there was anything else that needed doing before he headed over to the main house. But this stuff wasn't his, and most of it looked like it cost a pretty penny, so he really didn't intend to mess with it too much. _And you've already cost the guy a Picasso_, he reminded himself bitterly.

He shook his head. "You can't put it off forever, Skid. And it's just dinner."

He pulled a hand through his curly hair and wondered why he was avoiding it. Maybe because when the judge had invited him over, he'd gotten the feeling he really didn't have any choice. Something about the way the guy said, 'You're gonna do the dishes', like he was already planning his life. But still, he'd been with the man practically non-stop for almost forty-eight hours, and things had gone mostly okay. What was one more meal?

But the truth was, it was the very idea that things had been going okay that was causing his hesitation now. Hardcastle had laid out a perfectly reasonable approach to this insane arrangement: he wasn't looking for them to be buddies. And McCormick had been fine with that.

So why had he had those fleeting thoughts that there were layers to Milton Hardcastle that he had never anticipated? And why had he found himself actually laughing a time or two in the past few days? This was the guy who had sent him to prison, not to mention the guy who had threatened to do it again just two days ago. Things weren't really supposed to be going okay.

_He's also the guy who helped you catch Flip's killer. And this isn't exactly a_ _concrete room with reinforced steel for a door._

Unable to come up with much of an argument for that, McCormick gave a final sigh, and started out the door.

**00000**

McCormick was waved inside before he even managed the first hesitant knock.

"Took a little longer than I thought," he mumbled.

Hardcastle just nodded, and pointed toward one of the cabinets. "Grab some plates outta there."

"Yeah, okay, lemme just wash up first." McCormick moved quickly to the sink, then grinned slightly as he rubbed his hands together under the water.

"Besides," he went on, gesturing at the area, "this is where I'll be having my after-dinner repose, right? I should get the lay of the land."

"It's a sink, hotshot; not sure there's much to figure out."

McCormick shrugged as he crossed to the cabinet the judge had indicated. "Oh, I don't know, soap up top or under the sink, sponge or cloth; there's a lot to learn."

"I figure you'll manage," Hardcastle answered with a grin. He started piling noodles onto the plates McCormick was holding out. "Hope spaghetti is okay."

"It's great." Mark waited until the sauce had been generously spooned on top, then started toward the kitchen table. "Which seat is yours?" he asked, waiting to place the plates.

Hardcastle turned back from pulling the bread from the oven. He hesitated a split-second, then said, "Let's eat in the dining room." He jerked his thumb. "Right through that door." He tossed the loaf into a basket, then followed the young man from the kitchen.

"It doesn't matter where," the judge said gruffly, finding the kid still debating the seating arrangements.

McCormick flinched and quickly set the plates on the table. "What else can I do, Judge?"

Hardcastle sighed slightly at the obvious tension. "Why don't you grab some drinks from the fridge?" Then he added quickly, "I'll just have a soda, but there's beer, if you'd rather. Or we could make some tea?"

"Soda's fine," McCormick answered, heading back to the kitchen.

A moment later, Hardcastle entered the kitchen and found the other man closing a small drawer. "I don't keep the soda in there, McCormick," he growled.

"Uh, no," McCormick stammered, "I was just looking for the forks." He jammed his hands into his pockets, and glanced away from the judge's gaze. "Sorry."

The older man huffed out a short breath. "Ya know, dinner shouldn't be so hard."

"No," McCormick agreed, almost sadly, "it shouldn't. I'll just go on back to the gatehouse and get out of your way."

"That's not what I meant," Hardcastle said, stopping the ex-con before he could turn away. "I just meant . . ." he paused, then shook his head slightly. "The forks are in the drawer by the dishwasher," he said, then disappeared back through the door.

After a moment's hesitation, McCormick found the silverware, got two drinks from the refrigerator, grabbed a couple of napkins from the counter, and then returned to the dining room.

Hardcastle had rearranged his plate, seating himself on the opposite side of the table from McCormick's place, rather than at the head of the table. McCormick didn't comment as he re-entered the room, but simply sat. He handed the necessary items across to the judge.

"Thanks," Hardcastle said gruffly, taking the fork, "now let's eat."

McCormick took a couple of obligatory bites, but mostly he was discreetly watching the man across the table. Finally, he reached to tear off a piece of bread, speaking as casually as possible in the process.

"I wouldn't steal from you, Judge."

Hardcastle looked up from his plate. "I know."

Mark met his eyes at last. "No, you don't know; that's why I'm tellin' you."

"I wouldn't have brought you here if that's what I thought," the jurist said reasonably.

"What happened to the other cons?" McCormick asked abruptly.

Hardcastle coughed suddenly as the last noodle didn't slide down quite right. He pulled his soda toward him, popped the top, and took a swallow. After a long moment, he looked back at McCormick. "What?"

The young man smiled slightly. "Sarah said I wasn't the first ex-con you brought here; I just wondered what happened to the others."

"That's not really any of your business, McCormick."

"If you say so." McCormick took a few more bites of spaghetti and let the judge get back to his own meal before speaking again.

"So, Sarah said she would have chores for me. I think that part might've slipped your mind when you were laying out your deal. You wanna tell me exactly what you have planned for me?" He kept eating, slowly, waiting for an answer.

"Well, tracking down the bad guys won't take all of your time. You got a problem with earning your keep around here?"

McCormick took a long drink of his own soda, well aware that Hardcastle was now waiting for his own answer. He set the can back down, and gazed across at the judge.

"No more of a problem than I have with the rest of it."

Hardcastle laid his fork down loudly and looked back sternly at his new charge. "You got something you want to say, McCormick?"

"Not really."

"_McCormick_ . . ."

The young man swallowed his latest mouthful of food, then laid his own fork down gently, and pushed his plate aside. "None of this was my idea, ya know," he reminded the judge.

"So you'd rather be in prison?" Hardcastle challenged.

McCormick gave a single shake of his head. "Of course not."

"So? We had a deal."

"And I'm here."

"But you're not happy about it."

McCormick raised an eyebrow and almost grinned. "Was that part of the deal?"

Hardcastle pulled a hand across his chin. "That's up to you, sport. As far as I'm concerned, the deal's pretty simple: you work for me. I might need you to ride shotgun on a case and I might need you to mow the lawn, or anything in between. So I'll ask again, do you have a problem with that? If you do, now's the time to work it out."

McCormick contemplated that for a moment, then spoke slowly. "You know, I wasn't really sure you could get Cody. I'm not sure what I might've done if it hadn't worked out; I really didn't want him to get away with it."

"You tellin' me you might've given up on the legal approach?" Hardcastle asked warily. "Again?"

"I'm telling you I don't know _what_ I would've done." McCormick took a breath. "And . . . I'm telling you that I appreciate your help."

The older man looked back in surprise. "Well . . . that was _my_ part of the deal."

McCormick shifted in his chair. "Yeah, I know."

Hardcastle held his gaze. "So?"

"So, there's nothin' to work out, Judge; I know my part, too . . . I work for you."

Hardcastle examined him closely. "No arguments? No lip?"

And after a few seconds, McCormick grinned. "Now, I _know_ that wasn't part of the deal." And he pulled his plate back toward him and resumed eating.

**00000**

After the rocky start, dinner had progressed smoothly enough, and Hardcastle had been surprised to find that McCormick could hold up his end of the conversation on a wide variety of topics. Mostly, though, he had been surprised by the way it just felt natural to have the kid sitting there, talking about the baseball playoffs, and cars, and the criminal justice system. He had never expected that, even as well as things had gone in Vegas. And that mouth on the kid cracked him up; he hadn't really expected that, either.

He was mopping up the last of his sauce with the bread when he surprised them both with his next words.

"Some of them worked out okay, I guess."

McCormick glanced up from his own plate. "What?"

"The others who were here," Hardcastle explained. "A lot of 'em worked out okay. But it was different. It was only a few months at a time, and they were mostly just here to do some chores. Help get 'em started on the right road."

"But some of them didn't make it? Even a few months?" McCormick's tone held more than just a little interest.

Hardcastle shrugged. "What can I tell you, kid? Some of 'em never got the idea that they worked for me. So you're ahead of the game already."

"I might feel better if I was sure I understood all the rules," Mark complained.

"I'll let you know if you're messin' up."

"Hah. I'm sure. But will it be before or after you slap the cuffs on me and haul me downtown?"

"Is that what you think I want?"

McCormick hesitated, appearing to give that a lot of thought. "Probably not," he finally admitted.

Hardcastle tried to drive home the advantage. "So, if it's not what _I_ want, and it's not what _you_ want, we ought to be okay, don't ya think?"

McCormick smiled slightly. "You wanna know what I think?" He leaned back in his chair, examining the man across the table. "I think that might be the most reasonable thing I've ever heard you say, Hardcase."

**00000**

McCormick put the last of the dishes in the dishwasher, closed the door, and turned the dial. As he cleaned off the counter-tops, he thought about dinner, though—in truth—he would've been just as glad not to dwell on it.

True, things had been a little shaky there at the beginning, but he had been surprised to find things going okay as the meal wore on. But what had really surprised him was how easily they worked through the awkward moments and slipped into a fairly comfortable conversation. He certainly hadn't expected that, even as well as things had gone in Vegas.

Actually, he had sort of thought once they were out of the heat of an active case, Hardcastle might push him aside until he was needed again. Or that he might come across with that overbearing, righteous attitude that he'd had in the courtroom. But the guy had really been pretty decent, and he hadn't expected that, either.

Smiling, he draped the hand towel over the sink, and went to find out what he was expected to do with the rest of his evening.

**00000**

Unfamiliar with the surroundings, McCormick followed the sounds toward an open door at the front of the house. He gave two quick raps on the door, and waited for Hardcastle to look up from his desk.

"I finished in the kitchen, Judge," he said, when Hardcastle looked his direction. "Did you need anything else from me tonight?"

"Ah, no, not really," the judge answered, sounding not quite certain what he was expected to say.

After a couple of seconds, Mark went on, "Okay, well, then, in that case, I guess I'll head on out . . ." He didn't seem too sure of himself, either.

"McCormick, wait," Hardcastle said, just as the ex-con was stepping away. He gestured toward the television set. "I was just about to watch a movie. Maybe have some popcorn." He paused, still uncertain.

_He isn't what you expected,_ his mind piped up.

"You wanna hang around a while?" he finally finished.

McCormick couldn't stop the smile, though every instinct told him to say no.

_He isn't what you expected._

"Yeah, I could eat some popcorn," he finally said, stepping down into the den. "What're we watching?"

"_The Sons of Katie Elder_."

"The sons of _what_?"

"Katie Elder," Hardcastle replied. "You know, the Duke." He looked at McCormick's quizzical expression. "_John Wayne_," he clarified, incredulous.

"You're kidding," McCormick said, a little bit incredulous himself. "They still show stuff like that?"

"Sit down, kiddo," Hardcastle laughed as he slipped into his own armchair. "You've got a lot to learn."

"Want me to make the popcorn first?" Mark offered. "I'm getting to know my way around the kitchen pretty well."

The judge twisted to look behind him, eyebrows raised. "You're ready for popcorn already?"

Young blue eyes twinkled. "You've got a lot to learn, too, Judge."

Shaking his head, Hardcastle waved him out of the room. "Well, hurry it up, then; the movie's gonna start soon."

**00000**

McCormick made it back into the den just as the opening credits were beginning to roll. He placed the bowl of popcorn and two beers on the end table, then dropped into the empty chair.

When Hardcastle turned to reach for his bottle a moment later, he found the kid watching him silently. "What?"

McCormick shrugged. "This is just kinda weird," he answered honestly.

"Then it's a good thing we've got a while to get used to it," Hardcastle growled.

Mark laughed as he grabbed his own bottle. "Indefinitely, right?"

And suddenly, in that instant when he realized he knew exactly what the judge was going to say next, it didn't seem so strange at all; it seemed _right_.

"Now you're cookin', kiddo."

And both men raised bottles to their lips, hiding their smiles.


End file.
